


A Leap Worth Taking

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Growing and Learning [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heart is part of the circulatory system. It pumps oxygenated blood to the body and deoxygenated blood to the lungs. It doesn't have a voice. It doesn't call out to you. You can't follow it. Sherlock Holmes' heart is in a top condition, beating steadily and strongly. So what's this dragging sensation in his chest whenever John Watson comes into play?<br/>Until one day Mycroft steps on yet another bedsheet - figuratively speaking - and tells him there's only one way to find out. <em>Take a leap of faith</em>, he says.<br/>Seems to have worked for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Leap Worth Taking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyxpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/gifts).



> Although this is a stand-alone piece, it is directly related - something like an addendum - to Chapter 9 of "This Above All" where Sherlock and John join 'Mike Croft' and the Met boys at their favourite pub. You've been warned ;-)

John climbed into the cab, settling himself into the worn backseat and arranged the crutches in such a way that his injured leg could rest on them. 

Sherlock got in behind him.

“221B Baker Street,” he told the driver and sat back. 

He stared out of the dirty car window with unseeing eyes, not paying attention to the buildings they were passing, not sparing even the most fleeting of glances for the people defying the rain in pursuit of their Friday night entertainment.  He was, however, hyper aware of the man sitting next to him.  Not that he had ever been unaware of John Watson, but tonight was different.  Tonight, his brother had said something to him that had settled into his brain and wouldn’t leave.  He tended to wave most of what Mycroft said away unless it was issue-related but tonight, it hadn’t been only words that had struck him.  For the first time, he had watched Mycroft out of his natural habitat and around Lestrade, too.  Oh, he’d _seen_ them together at numerous occasions – how could he not –, but tonight, he had _observed_ for the first time.  Had noticed how Mycroft’s haughty features had softened whenever his eyes had met Lestrade’s, had seen the small touches, the secret smiles, had become aware of the deep and mutual affection between his worthy brother and his unlikely husband.  ‘A leap worth taking’, Mycroft had said.

He realised he’d begun drumming a nervous tattoo on his violin case and immediately stopped, frowning at himself. 

A soft chuckle to his left made him turn his head. “What is it?”

“Mycroft,” John said, “can you believe him?”

“I never believe him. What are you talking about?”

“I’ve never seen him like this. The way he’s around all these blokes? I mean, ‘Mike’ and all that?” He shook his head. “I almost liked him. When he’s like this, I mean. And have you seen how flirty he is around Greg?”

“Revolting, isn’t it.”

“No,” John slowly said, “it’s not. It’s rather… well, cute, actually. For the first time ever, I’ve seen him behave like a real human being.”

Sherlock shot him a surprised look. “You think so?”

“Don’t you? It’s like Greg’s grounding him, you know, reminding him that there’s more to living than just a brain, no matter how brilliant that brain is.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and searched John’s face, wondering whether there was a hidden message between the lines, but John met his eyes with a smile.

“But you, you were even better.”

“I was?”

“God, I had no idea you could play like that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve heard me play before.”

“You already said that at the pub and I will tell you again. I’ve never heard you play like that before. It was amazing. Brilliant.”

Echoes of a conversation held years ago drifted through Sherlock’s mind.  John’s voice had been full of wonder back then.  Before the fake fraud.  Before the fall.   Before it had got complicated.  Back then, he had looked at Sherlock… exactly as he did now. 

Sherlock blinked.  John smiled.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“You’re welcome,” John replied.

They rode in silence until the cab pulled up before Speedy’s.  Sherlock paid, got out and almost ran up the short flight of stairs to unlock the front door, shot upstairs, taking two steps at a time, then checked himself and waited for John to catch up. 

He watched him make his way up the seventeen stairs with grim determination but knew better than to offer his help.  John’s leg had been badly shattered during that car accident; in fact, he had hovered frightfully close to an amputation.  Crutches and a limp seemed nothing in comparison but he loathed depending on help from others.  Sherlock understood that and only ever offered assistance when it was obviously needed, having developed an almost uncanny sense of catching just the right moment between John being stubborn and John being helpless. 

They stepped inside their flat that greeted them with darkness and silence.  John hung up his light jacket, fumbled for the light switch and hobbled into the kitchen.

“Cup of tea?” he called and Sherlock hesitated.  It sounded tempting, a late cup of tea and some idle nightly chit chat, but there were things he wanted to think about.  Things that needed looking at from all angles, and he needed to be alone.

“No,” he called back, already on the way to his room. “I have work to do.”

And he fled upstairs.

****** 

It was past four o’clock when he woke up to his bladder’s urgent message about too many beverages at too late an hour not being a good idea.  He crept down the stairs and across the sitting room as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb John, closed the bathroom door behind himself and did what he had to do.  On his way back to his bedroom he paused to listen for sounds coming from John’s room.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin.  He must have had more to drink than he had realised, or else he would never have missed the John-shaped shadow sitting on the sofa, injured leg propped up on the coffee table.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” John patted the seat next to him. “Care to sit with me for a while?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Please?”

They sat next to each other in the darkness, with only the half-moon providing a faint silvery light.

“You know I’ve been having nightmares since I’ve moved back in,” John said in a conversational tone.

“I know. I hear you.”

“I’m surprised Emily sleeps through them most of the time.”

“You’re less noisy than you think.”

“Then how come you hear me and she doesn’t?”

“She’s still very small. And I don’t sleep much. You should know that.”

“You nap during the days.”

Sherlock heard John’s smile rather than seeing it, and he smiled in return.

“True.”

“It’s the same dream over and over again. And I wake up feeling utterly alone.”

“I understand. You’ve suffered a horrible loss.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not Mary I dream about.”

“What do you dream about?”

“You. I dream about you.”

Sherlock felt his heart sink.  Nightmares.  He was giving John nightmares.  He closed his eyes.

“I see you fall.”

His eyes snapped open.

“I see you fall almost every night, and I see you lie on the pavement in a puddle of blood,” John said in a thick voice. “You have no idea how much it hurts.”

“No,” said Sherlock softly. “No, I don’t. Listen, John, I’m truly –”

John held up his hand.

“I can’t lose you again, Sherlock. Don’t ever go behind my back again. Ever.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

They fell quiet. 

‘A leap worth taking’, Mycroft had said.  Well, if there had ever been a time to leap, it was now.

Sherlock pulled his legs up and lay down with his head on John’s lap.  He felt John stiffen in surprise, then relax.  Then one of John’s hands landed on his sleep-dishevelled curls, light as a feather, and he smiled in the near-darkness when he felt the first, tentative strokes.

They were home.  At long last.


End file.
